


Need to Know

by gamerfic



Category: Alibi - Dessa (Song)
Genre: Alcohol, Crimes & Criminals, Don't Have to Know Canon, F/F, POV First Person, Songfic, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 10:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14734833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamerfic/pseuds/gamerfic
Summary: Go get seen tonight.





	Need to Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [within_a_dream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/gifts).



Deeply tolling bells echo through the autumn afternoon as Isabel descends the steps of the church. She smiles when she sees my car parked at the curb and climbs into the passenger seat. "Thanks for picking me up," she says as she buckles her seatbelt.

"No problem," I reply, putting the car in drive. "How was church?"

"Fine. The same as always. That's kind of the point of going to Mass." I feel her dark eyes on the side of my face, warm and knowing. "You can come along with me anytime, you know."

"I know. It's not really my speed. Thanks, though." I remember making my first communion alongside Isabel inside the same church she still visits every weekend, kneeling next to her at the altar rail in a fluffy white dress with the body of Christ sticking to the roof of my mouth. The older I got, the less I needed those ancient rituals, even as Isabel clung more tightly to them. I wonder what she thinks I'd get out of them now - or if she wants me beside her in the pew for her benefit rather than my own.

Isabel makes a noncommittal noise and fishes her phone out of her purse. "I guess it's not all _exactly_ the same. They have apps for the confessional now, so you can keep track of what you need to tell the priest."

"Wow. Do people really use them?"

"I guess it depends on how many sins you need to confess." She turns her face toward the warm sunlight filtering in through the car window, not expecting me to respond. We both already know what's weighing on her conscience.

I drive to the nearest tollway on-ramp and merge with the rest of the stop-and-go traffic pulsating thickly toward the city like blood through a clogged artery. Normally I'd avoid the major roads and their Saturday night congestion, but tonight each irritating toll plaza with its cameras and electronic receivers is a welcome and comforting milestone. So are Isabel's fingers steadily scrolling through her phone. I let her decide when to put it away and break the silence, which doesn't happen for almost twenty minutes. "I'm glad we could make this work."

"So am I. It's been forever since I went to a concert at all, let alone one by these guys. God, I must've been in college the last time they toured."

"No kidding. It's awesome that they came here. I don't think you'd get away with just packing up and driving to Detroit to see them, like we used to."

I chuckle and change lanes. We're coming up on our exit now. "Yeah, not so much."

"Are the kids with their dad overnight, then?"

"Yeah, we switched weekends. It was no big deal." I don't want to tell her that getting Shawn to temporarily alter our custody schedule had taken a week's worth of passive-aggressive emails and a veiled threat of calling my lawyer. Venting will only serve to introduce the topic of our exes and the continued pull they exert on our lives, and Jerome is the absolute last person I want Isabel thinking about tonight. "The hotel's just up ahead. Wait, shit, did you have a bag? Don't tell me you forgot it back at church."

"No. I like to travel light." Isabel smiles and pats the bulky leather purse on her lap, then gestures at the little black dress she's wearing. "That's the nice thing about this dress. Works as well for Mass as it does for the club."

"I guess. Well, I probably overpacked, but even if I hadn't I'd need to park the car anyway. I think we've still got time."

"Don't worry about it, Ana. If we're a little late to the show it's okay. I'm just happy we're finally getting to do this."

"Me too."

A few blocks off the tollway, I guide the car down into the maw of a parking garage. After I've parked and retrieved my overnight bag from the trunk, we make our way to the hotel's front desk. Isabel starts digging around in her purse again as the clerk looks up my reservation on the computer. "You paid for concert tickets," she says. "Let me pay for the room."

"Are you sure? You don't have to."

"No, really, I want to." She slides her driver's license and credit card across the scuffed wooden desk, and I know better than to argue. Besides, it's good for her to use her card here anyway, so there's a record of it later just in case.

We take the key cards out of their little paper envelope and let the shuddering silver elevator pull us up four floors to our room for the night. All they had left was a single king bed, but Isabel didn't object. She wastes no time settling in, disgorging accessories and toiletries from her purse, temporarily discarding her rosary on the bedside table, filling the room with a perfumed cloud of hairspray and her patented "Going Out Mix" pumping tinnily out of her phone. I change my shirt, brush my teeth, freshen up my own makeup, wait for her to be ready. By the time she emerges from the bathroom she's a far cry from the modest, unassuming young lady who left the church ninety minutes ago. "You look good," I say.

"So do you. You want me to do your eyeliner, though?"

"Sure."

I perch on the edge of the bed, smoothing the floral-print bedspread beneath me, and close my eyes. The kiss of the sharpened pencil tip tugs gently against my eyelids. "Okay," says Isabel, and I cross to the mirror to admire the neat black wings she drew. Her hands have always been steadier than mine. "Ready?"

"Whenever you are."

We walk together out the door, down the hall, through the lobby, into the street. There's a restaurant she likes nearby, and we get a table near the front windows and keep talking as we eat dinner. We've got a lot to catch up on - triumphs and frustrations at our respective jobs, cute things my kids and her nephews have done, gossip about the lives of mutual friends and acquaintances, what we're watching on Netflix. She coos over a video from my daughter's school pageant, and I laugh myself into a coughing fit over a story about one of her particularly eccentric house cleaning clients. The conversation rarely swerves toward Jerome, and when it does I steer it away from him as deftly as I can. Isabel already knows how I hate that they're back together, and why. There's no sense in ruining a pleasant evening by bringing up something I can't - and she won't - change.

Throughout the meal I force myself not to look at my phone or the clock on the far wall. I don't want to contemplate what Jerome is probably doing right now. If I were him, if I were still on the inside of the life he leads instead of five years removed from it, I'd be staking out the target's house by now, making sure the information I'd received earlier was still good and the owners' plans hadn't changed. I wouldn't make my move until night fell, until I could be certain of not being interrupted. There used to be a sick exhilaration in the moments just before we began, a buzzing nervous electricity that climaxed when the hinges came loose or the alarm panel went dead or the tumblers in the lock clicked over beneath the steady attention of the pick. A part of me will always miss it, even as I understand why I have to keep Isabel from walking any farther down the same path I once followed.

We split the bill for dinner and walk the few remaining blocks to the concert venue. We lingered too long at the restaurant, and the opening act has already started by the time we get there, but neither of us really minds. Any stress Isabel might have displayed on account of our late arrival evaporates when she sees the first familiar face on the dance floor. The club is packed with old friends from high school and college, former coworkers, and people neither one of us has seen in years. We can barely take two steps without running into someone who wants to catch up, which we do as best as we can over the thumping bass and pounding drums. Phone screens flash in sporadic spasms as everyone documents the night, and I wonder if Isabel notices how I'm maneuvering us into the background of as many selfies as possible.

During the brief intermission while the openers are clearing their gear from the stage, Isabel excuses herself to the restroom and I sneak another peek at my phone. _As if Jerome might send me updates on the progress of the crime._ They've probably entered the house by now, using the door code Isabel gave them, finding their way to the valuables and the safe thanks to the floor plan she learned over months of cleaning windows and scrubbing toilets for the wealthy homeowners. I can't erase what she's already told him, or give Jerome back the money he owes to his suppliers and that he gambled away, or change any of our decisions or our many mistakes. All I can do now is try to shield Isabel from the consequences she's all too eager to take onto herself, again and again. If nothing else, what happens next will happen without her.

With a start I realize that at least ten minutes have passed, the headliner is about to take the stage, and I have no idea where Isabel has gone. My stomach twists as I frantically scan the crowd, wondering if he called her and she answered, if she's already left to take the fall for him again. Then I hear her call my name and see her tiptoeing through the crowd with a drink held high in each hand. I try not to let my relief show as she passes me a frosty beer bottle. "Thanks."

She frowns. "You feeling okay?"

"Oh, yeah," I say, and take a deep swig of the bitter suds. "Just a little tired."

She taps me playfully on the cheek. "Wake up, sleepyhead. The show hasn't even started."

"I know. I'll be fine."

Before either of us can say more, a cheer goes up from the audience as the band enters. Isabel grins, grabs my wrist, and leads me toward the metal barrier at the front of the stage. Our friends crowd in around us, leaning forward in anticipation. The lead guitarist picks up his instrument and launches into the opening riff of a song I've heard a thousand times before. The audience screams even louder. In an instant I'm transported back to all those long-ago road trips and drunken karaoke sessions and late-night heart-to-hearts that borrowed this music for their soundtrack. My voice and Isabel's join the growing roar of approval.

I don't recognize the second song the band plays, or the third. For all that I loved them in my younger days, I haven't kept up with their latest releases. It doesn't matter. It's more than enough to sing along to the ones I know and simply dance and sway to the others, carried along breathlessly by the pulsing bass and pounding drums. Beside me, Isabel is similarly enthralled. She sways her hips, waves her hands above her head, whips her hair around her in a dark cloud. Catching my eye, she mouths, "This is awesome." I nod and smile in reply.

A knot in my stomach loosens slightly at the sight of her carefree dancing. Here and now, captivated by the music and hemmed in by the crowd, it's too late for her to be anything other than present. Jerome and his crew have to be finishing their work by now, gathering jewelry and electronics and cash, choosing valuable items that are easy to steal, transport, and fence. To encumber yourself too heavily risks spoiling his clean getaway. To linger too long risks the homeowner's unanticipated return. He keeps a gun tucked in his waistband, but he really rather wouldn't have to use it - not because he's especially reluctant to kill, but because it's all just so inconvenient when he does. Isabel knows this, too, but somehow it hasn't driven her away from Jerome like it did me.

So it goes, on and on, the energy in the room surging and spiraling toward an ecstatic peak. Bottles of beer keep appearing in my hand - _from Isabel? from someone else? I don't care_ \- and I keep drinking them. Isabel's glass empties and fills again and again, too. She motions me over to her and we dance together, shimmying in unison, inches apart. She rests her free hand casually on my hip and pulls me even closer. I can smell the vodka on her breath and see the thin sheen of sweat matting her hair to her scalp and slowly melting her perfect makeup. The flashing stage lights reflect violet and green in her dark eyes. Then the song fades out and she pulls away from me like the distortion from the last chords receding from my hearing, always drawing her into the next moment.

We wring a few encores out of the band before they finally take their leave of us. Soft recorded music, barely audible over the ringing in my ears, takes the place of the thunder of the amps and the surge of the crowd. The house lights come back up, painting the room in silver haze, simultaneously too dull and too bright. My ears ring in the sudden silence with a reverberating chime as faint and persistent as my memory of the afternoon church bells. The audience swirls slowly toward the exits like water draining from a clogged tub. Isabel and I are in no hurry to join them. She pays the bar tab, and we take our time in the foyer and on the sidewalk saying goodbye to all those old friends we haven't seen in years and don't know when we'll see again. Their presence at the show wasn't a coincidence, but if Isabel suspects anything of the hours I spent on social media begging and cajoling and calling in favors until they all showed up, she doesn't say anything. We both know the more she gets seen tonight, the better.

The last bits of tension I'm holding dissolve as Isabel poses for one more selfie with our long-ago roommates and I glance at the bank clock across the street. It's after midnight. By now, Jerome has either accomplished what he set out to do, or his luck has run out and he's been arrested. As much as I'd love to see him locked up, I can't risk the retaliation that would come to me, my family, or Isabel if he knew I'd sold him out. The best I can hope for is what I got: a crime neither Isabel nor I was involved in. I can picture Jerome and his crew now, loaded down with valuables as they hurry away into the night. Their getaway car will be waiting several blocks away, and neither Isabel nor I will be driving it, as either of us might once have done.

In the end it's just the two of us left in front of the now-darkened club, like I always knew it would be. "I suppose we should get back to the hotel," says Isabel, marble-mouthed. She takes several unsteady steps in the wrong direction before she giggles and turns around. "Oops."

"You're drunk," I say.

"So? It's not like you're entirely sober."

"Okay. Fair." The streetlamps and neon signs smear across the still night sky like watercolors, and everything around us feels warm and mildly unreal. I'm glad our hotel is so close to the venue and so easy to find. A few steps ahead of me, Isabel trips on a crack in the pavement and nearly falls. I hurry forward to catch her by the waist. "Careful."

"I'm fine, I'm fine. But this road, it's all uneven. And my shoes are killing me." She steadies herself on my arm and kicks off her high heels. There's a run in her tights that starts at her ankle and tracks all the way up past the hem of her skirt, revealing tawny skin beneath the sheer fabric. Then she straightens up, slips two fingers through her shoe straps, and sets off slowly down the sidewalk again.

We walk in silence for a long time until Isabel says softly, "Thanks for tonight."

"It was nothing," I say, although we both know that isn't true.

"No, seriously. It was just really good to go out and see everyone again. It's been way too long since I did anything like this and it was just, it was even more fun than I thought it was going to be. Nothing else I could have done tonight would have been half this much fun. Whatever that would have been."

 _I know exactly what you would have been doing tonight if you hadn't been with me, Isabel,_ I think but don't say. _You'd be helping Jerome make his escape. You'd be ready to take the fall for him again, to do anything he asked of you. And it's only the length and strength of our friendship keeping you away._ Instead I mumble, "I'm glad you had fun."

"I hope you did, too."

"Yeah. Definitely."

A cold gust of autumn wind, reeking of dead leaves and exhaust fumes, ruffles our hair. Isabel shivers. "Shit, it's cold out here."

"Sure, because you're not wearing any shoes."

"Don't rub it in." She bumps her shoulder into mine and links her elbow through mine, leaning closer, huddling against me for warmth. "Tell me it's not much farther to the hotel?"

"You're in luck," I say, pointing at the golden light spilling out from the lobby doors on the other side of the street. Isabel squeezes my hand, then lets go and dashes out into the crosswalk, heedless of the flashing red DON'T WALK sign. I run after her, the same as I always do.

Back at our hotel room, Isabel immediately announces, "I need the bathroom," and vanishes inside it. I wipe off my now-smudged eyeliner, change into the T-shirt and gym shorts I sleep in, shut off the lights, lie down at one edge of the king-size bed. The alcohol has set the room to spinning lazily around me, and I'm not sure how much of my sleep is feigned and how much is real before I hear the toilet flush and the door open. I crack one eye open to see Isabel stumbling out, peeling off her shredded tights and tossing them aside. Her cheeks are red from booze and damp from scrubbing, the roots of her hair wet and matted down where they frame her still-smiling face. "Your turn," she slurs.

"Nah, I'm good. I just need sleep."

"Me too." She switches off the bathroom light, plunging us into darkness. I hear the aging springs of the mattress creak as it shifts under her weight. To my surprise, she doesn't leave the expected respectful space between us, but rolls over to my side of the bed. She presses herself against me, her head on my shoulder, her arm slung across my torso. She smells of sweat and cigarette smoke and the mint mouthwash she just used. "You are such a good friend to me," she murmurs in a voice half-fogged by dreams. It doesn't matter that I don't know how to respond; she's asleep and snoring lightly within seconds, before I can reply at all.

Instead, I lie awake, staring up into the blackness as if it might display the night's invisible tracing of security cameras and cell phone towers and credit card charges and photographs and eyewitnesses, the map I have made of her innocence. I wonder if she suspects it's more than friendship spurring me to make this plan, just like all the ones before and after it. It doesn't matter. I can't make her choose me any more than I can make her not choose Jerome. All I can do is keep protecting her the only way I know how. So I watch the heavy darkness and the hotel ceiling somewhere hidden beyond it, and wonder yet again: if the time ever comes when I'm made to confess the truth to her, what will my alibi be?


End file.
